Loving and Learning

The Missionary Training Institute in Nyack, New York, was founded in 1887 by Dr. A.B. Simpson of the Christian and Missionary Alliance Church. Spread across a hill overlooking the wide Hudson River, the massive gray buildings seemed to be the gateway to the whole world. Knowing the missions emphasis of the school, Howard and I walked onto campus ready for whatever the Lord had for us. In our youth, we didn't even suspect that most mission boards in the forties were more concerned about sending out their own white representatives than people of color.

   Nor did we suspect the strict restrictions that the college would place on our courtship. When we first saw the impressive campus, I grabbed Howard's hand in delight. Immediately I sensed we were being stared at. No hand-holding allowed, we quickly learned.

   During the next few days we discovered even more rules. Restricted dating — once a week and then only with two other couples — and assigned seating for meals limited our time together. (But we could sit together at the Friday-night missionary meeting and during the Sunday evening service.) We couldn't walk together to our classes, so I'd often write long letters to Howard and pass them on to him via one of his friends. But despite the restrictions that were more rigid than

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Alden's we were delighted to be in college — to be studying God's Word.

   In a student body of six hundred, we were two of twelve blacks. That meant we couldn't easily blend in with the rest of the students. One of those other blacks was Ruth, a senior with whom I roomed my first year. It was 1941 and the school had welcomed blacks only twenty years earlier, so we still felt like "test cases." The white students weren't accustomed to having blacks on campus, and since most had never associated with blacks in their churches or communities, many of them treated us rudely. We were always conscious of their watching eyes and listening ears evaluating our collective lives.

   I was disappointed to find the same old prejudices and the same old hate stares on a Christian campus. It's no wonder our little group of black students enjoyed being together whenever we could. Occasionally I'd rankle inwardly when a white male would open the door for another white student and then let it close in my face, but I was trying to overlook such rudeness. Often our group discussed the issue of prejudice within the church, but found we had no solutions. The white community expected us to know "our place" and to be docile, smiling Christians, even though the Scriptures emphasized our equality in Christ.

   Frustrating though it often is, the Lord uses both good and bad circumstances to shape lives. Now, forty-four years later, I realize my years at Nyack included some of the best — and worst — days of my life. I'm especially thankful for the friendships I formed — with whites as well as blacks.

   Early during the first semester, Howard and three other black fellows formed a quartet that was often invited to sing at churches (even in New York City, twenty miles away) or on other college campuses. Howard's joyous saxophone usually made its way into the program. He hadn't lost his touch, and one day I asked him if he ever regretted giving up his dream of traveling around the world with his music. He quickly shook his head. "No, Wanda, because I didn't give up a dream; God exchanged it for a better one. One of these days, He'll show me

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exactly what His plan is. Until then, I'm just trying to do my part by getting ready for whatever He wants."

   It was no wonder I loved him so.

   Although I wished I could spend more time with Howard, I thoroughly enjoyed my classes and often wished I could tell Mama that her dream had come true: her two daughters were in Bible school. I wished I could tell her about the teachers who made biblical passages and characters interesting and relevant to our own lives. I'd nod when they stressed the point that the Lord doesn't limit Himself by always using the same methods to accomplish His purposes. After all, He had called me quietly to Himself through my longing to be rid of the bitterness that had entered my life after Mama's death, but He had called Howard dramatically that night on the dance floor. It gave me a special comfort to know that our heavenly Father was seeing my heart rather than my skin color. He had a special blessing for me — if I'd be obedient to Him.

   The presence of students whose parents were missionaries had a special effect upon me too. It opened up a new world. They had been born in exotic-sounding places like the Congo (as it was called then) or Burma, while I had been born just a few hours away in boring Oberlin, Ohio. As I heard their reports in class or chapel, which often included a few phrases in their second language, I clearly sensed their longing to go back "home" to the mission field. God's direction wasn't yet clear for Howard and me, but I frequently wondered if God was preparing my heart for such an adventure.

   But near the end of that first semester, our serene world was smashed with a newscast: Pearl Harbor had been bombed. "The war in Europe" was now our war, and many of the students were eager to enlist immediately. The teachers, however, insisted that the young men stay in school until they were drafted, saying that now the world needed trained Christian leaders more than ever. While many were persuaded to stay, others left — some never to return.

   Three of my brothers joined right away even though they knew the armed services generally placed blacks in menial jobs to free the whites for the "more important" work. But it's only

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in retrospect that I'm troubled by the military system. At the time, it was just the way things were, and the fate of our country was dependent upon national unity; I was more troubled about my brothers' safety than about their assignments.

   For some unexplained reason, I was especially troubled by the induction of brother Louis C. Young. Louis, or "L.C." as we'd always called him, was studious; I couldn't imagine him killing anyone. But my worry was no greater than the worry of most every sister or wife or mother who had to watch their men go off to unpronounceable places on the other side of the world.

   Alden decided to wait for his draft notice and continue to work. When I suggested that I'd cut down my school hours and get a job to pay my own bills, he was adamant. "No way, little sister. Your job is to study. My job is to make sure you can stay there. There'll be plenty of time for you to work later on."

   With Alden's encouragement, I concentrated on my studies, taking time out regularly to write and pray for my soldier brothers . . . Yet in the midst of worry about family members in the service and endless class assignments, we students still found time for occasional teasing. It was during my first year that I acquired the nickname "Boo" — and all because of an encounter with our dean of women.

   Our dean was a strict, unapproachable woman who had little time for excuses. We knew the rules; we were expected to follow them. Unless assigned to a specific Christian service project, everyone was expected to attend daily chapel and Sunday morning services. The daily chapels delighted me. The messages, brought by our president Dr. Mosely, our teachers, fellow students, or guest speakers, emphasized evangelism and missions, so I didn't want to miss them. But sometimes on Sunday morning, I'd get up and then glance back longingly at my cozy bed, covered with one of Mama's old quilts.

   One cloudy Sunday morning, Ruth had gotten up early to play the piano for a black church downtown, so she wouldn't be attending with me. And Howard and the quartet were in New York again, at a church in Harlem, so I couldn't see him

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until late that afternoon. I swung my feet onto the cold floor and immediately pulled them back under the covers. This was a good morning to stay in bed.

   I dozed for a while, vaguely conscious of the sounds from other rooms as the girls dressed and left for church. When all was finally quiet and I should have been able to sleep soundly, the silence — and the guilt — descended. I kept my eyes tightly shut for several minutes, but finally I gave in and sat up. The closet door was open, showing Ruth's white winter nightgown hanging on the back of the door. The blue dress I had planned to wear to church was plainly visible too. I couldn't sleep but I still didn't want to go to church, so I grabbed my Bible. I read for several minutes but that didn't seem to fit my mood either. I saw the textbooks piled high on my desk, but I wanted something amusing to read. I knew the girl across the hall had some recent best-sellers that she had said we could borrow anytime. Oh, that's what I wanted.

   Never before had I noticed how much our doors creaked, but on that silent morning they seemed to crack like thunder down the hall of that building. Quickly, I selected a book and scurried back to my room — and my bed.

   Within minutes, I heard slow footsteps on the wooden stairs, as though someone didn't want to be heard. Who could that be? Startled, I jumped out of my bed and ran into my closet, pulling the door almost shut behind me.

   Just as I did that, I saw the door to my room open slowly, but my sister's nightgown covered my view of the person's face. Whoever it was had come directly to my room. How did that person know I was still here? It couldn't be the dean of women, I thought, because she always walked with a quick, firm step. But who else? Just as I pondered the intruder's identity, the closet door was suddenly jerked open, causing the white nightgown to flutter out across the person's face! The intruder now looked like a ghost, and, without thinking, I yelled "Boo!" as loudly as I could.

   Even as the word flew out of my mouth, I clasped my hands to my face. Standing before me was the stern dean of women, who gasped and reeled backward but quickly regained

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her composure. I wasn't about to try to explain what I was doing in my closet, so I waited for her to speak first.

   "Young lady, why aren't you in church this morning?"

   It crossed my mind to say, "Well, why aren't you?" but decided I was in enough trouble without adding insubordination to the list.

   "I just decided I'd stay here today."

   "Well, if your sister can get up and go all the way downtown to church, you surely can get up and go the little way across campus. Don't you ever let this happen again!"

   I wasn't sure if she meant my staying home from church or the whole ridiculous scene of my jumping out at her from the closet, but I quickly agreed. After all, she had the power to take away my privileges for a week or longer — although she didn't.

   I told only one friend what happened, but the story was too good to keep and soon it was all over the campus. For the rest of my time at Nyack, friends would walk by and mutter a gleeful "Boo!" under their breath.

   The dean of women and I managed to stay out of each other's way the rest of my freshman year, but I rapidly learned she wasn't my biggest problem.

   Howard and I were determined to prepare for whatever work the Lord had for us, even it if meant leaving behind all that was familiar to us and going into overseas missions. We hadn't learned yet that, while God called His missionaries, it was mostly the white mission boards that sent them. And very few had accepted the challenge of inviting blacks to join their teams. On Friday nights, the twelve of us who were black would listen as missionaries challenged us with the call of Jesus to "go into all the the world and preach the gospel" (Mark 16:15). But when one of us would raise the question about blacks being sent to the mission field, we were given many reasons why it wasn't feasible. For instance, some mission boards seemed concerned that black missionaries would have children who would need to be educated with the white children. Others said the nationals — or "natives" as they were called then — wouldn't accept the gospel from a black man, but would expect him to

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live on their level. Of course, we didn't accept such reasoning since the Word of God plainly emphasizes division of the saved and unsaved rather than the division of races. It helped us to know that some of the black churches were putting pressure on the mission boards, saying the Great Commission included everyone, but the situation wasn't improving as quickly as we would have liked.

   One Friday night we encountered the problem directly from the pulpit. Our speaker was a missionary from Indo-China, and as he shared his experiences, he told how the people lived, describing the dirt and filth in great detail. These people, he said, expected the missionary to come into their home and accept their hospitality, as questionable as it was. Then he gripped the side of the pulpit, leaned forward, and nearly shouted, "But this is what God expects of you. And I tell you, it takes the grace of God for a white man to love a colored man."

   The word colored wasn't spoken, it was spat.

   After the service, I hurried back to my room, dropped beside my bed, and complained to God. Why, Lord? Why do we have to deal with such gross imperfections in Your servants? I poured my hurt out to God and finally found comfort in 2 Corinthians 9:8: "And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work."

   That verse would help me win many future battles, which I fought in my room, on my knees.

*     *     *

   In spite of the traumas, that first year passed quickly. Back in Oberlin during the summer, Howard and I spent more time together, even though we were both busy with jobs and Sunday singing engagements, which often took us to churches in opposite directions from each other. We made time for reading the Bible and praying together, always looking for direction and strength.

   When I went back to school in September, I was again

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worried that Alden might soon be called into the service; the war was escalating on all fronts. I dreaded the prospect of having a fourth brother overseas.

   L.C.'s letters from North Africa were especially troubling to me already. I had doubled my prayers for him and had tried to write cheerful letters of our activities and our plans for the busy new school year.

   While we enjoyed having the sophomore privileges, we didn't have much time to use them since studies and student jobs took so much of our time. Howard was the school barber, and I had the "silver and glasses" assignment for the table set-ups in the dining room. Also Howard's quartet traveled every weekend. In spite of our not being able to spend much time together, I was unspeakably happy. Only bad news from home could mar that joy.

   Early one afternoon, just after class, the dorm head resident ran to my room. "There's a phone call, Wanda. Ruth — from home. Hurry. It's long distance. Downstairs." Phone calls back then weren't made casually, so I couldn't run down the stairs fast enough. Had something happened to Papa? It had been several months since we'd heard from him down in South Carolina. Breathlessly, I snatched the receiver out of the office assistant's hand.

   "Ruth? What's wrong?"

   "Wanda, I've got bad news." How tired she sounded.

   "What? Who is it?"

   "L.C. He was killed ten days ago. In North Africa."

   L.C.? But I'd just received a letter from him on Friday. No. Studious L.C. wasn't dead. He just couldn't be!

   "Wanda? Wanda?" Ruth's voice came through a deep fog.

   "I'm here," I muttered.

   "Honey, we don't have any details yet." Ruth had started to cry. "But we'll let you know as soon as we hear anything. I talked to a major this morning. They already buried L.C. — over there."

   Her voice trailed off, swallowed again by her tears. I don't remember saying good-bye, but one of the office girls gently took the receiver from my hand. Numbly I gave them the few

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details I had before the dam broke that had held back the tears. Suddenly the assistant dean of women was there, her arms around my shoulders. The clean cedar scent of her closet radiated from her clothes, and I leaned my head against her shoulder and sobbed. There was nothing any of them could say, but someone thought to summon Howard. When he burst through the door, I jumped up and threw my arms around him forgetting the rules. With tears running down her own cheeks, the assistant dean of women didn't scold us but told Howard to take me for a long walk.

   Outside my dorm, Howard handed me his handkerchief and then listened to my fond memories of L.C. How proud L.C. had been at my high school graduation. The watch I wore had been his gift in celebration of that happy event. When I'd been in third grade, he'd been determined to teach me to fight off a bigger girl who'd delighted in badgering me.

   We walked and I talked out my first wave of grief, until finally we crossed the street back to my dorm. But just then the dean of women drove onto campus. As she stepped out of her car, she saw us, then stood and watched us, her jaw set in that way reserved for those caught breaking the rules. With quick, determined steps, she walked toward us but then slowed. Maybe she thought of my having yelled "Boo!" when she opened the closet. Maybe the Lord nudged her to go on inside but she merely strode past us toward her office. Once inside, she undoubtedly learned the reason for our "blatant disregard" for the rules, because she never mentioned the incident. Actually, her silence aggravated my sorrow, as I wished she had somehow let me know that she cared about my pain.

   The rest of that year, I hugged to myself memories of L.C. the way I'd held onto special moments with Mama. Gradually the sharp pain of his death diminished, though I still carry the knowledge that the world lost a special person when it lost L.C.

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   The summer after our sophomore year, Howard and I became officially engaged.

   One lovely July evening we drove to the shore of Lake Erie. Howard's arm was around me as we watched in comfortable silence the shimmering ribbon of silver that the moon's light cast across the calm waters. For several minutes we listened to the gentle slaps of the waves against the sand. My thoughts were about the coming school year. I assumed Howard's were too. Then he spoke.

   "Wanda, honey, we've known for a long time that we are meant for one another."

   I nodded, still intent upon the beauty of the evening.

   "Well," he said, "there comes the moment when we want the rest of the world to know it too . . . Here, I've got something special for you."

   As I turned, he opened a ring box containing the most beautiful diamond ring I had ever seen. I threw my arms around him.

   "Oh, Howard!. That's lovely. And you know I want to wear it, but you have to ask Alden for permission first."

   Even if it was the forties, I needn't have worried. When Howard talked to my brother that night, Alden immediately gave his blessing. "I've always wanted the best for my sister. I know she's getting that in you."

   The start of our third year brought a fresh excitement; our senior year and then marriage were within sight. For the present though, we enjoyed the increased dating privileges the official status of "engaged" brought. Now we could sign up for one of the small dating parlors. There, three or four couples could talk for two hours a week. Yet we didn't realize our greatest personal challenge since high school was just ahead.

   Each year, we had enjoyed the Christian Emphasis Week, but during our junior year it was especially meaningful. The guest speakers, Rev. and Mrs. Wishart, presented several talks about the practical side of Christianity, specifically about the relationship between husbands and wives. Since it was our fifth year of dating, Howard and I listened carefully.

   Encouraging us to base all our actions on good reasons,

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the Wisharts asked questions, such as "What kind of marriage do you want? What kind of wife or husband will you be? What important principles do you want to teach your children? Each of those questions was illustrated with the Wisharts' personal experiences and heartaches; they had learned to pray before making any decisions

   On the last night, Mrs. Wishart made a bold statement. "You may be a Christian and your boyfriend or girlfriend may be a Christian, but that doesn't necessarily mean that God wants you to be together. Don't assume you're doing the right thing: ask Him to make it clear that you are!"

   I sat stunned.

   After the service, Howard walked me back to the dorm. (It was allowed.) There seemed to be cement in our shoes — we walked that slowly. But we were troubled about the challenge. Had we just assumed we knew God's will?

   So far God had worked everything out. We were together, but had we taken all that for granted? Not once had we stopped and prayed, "Lord, is this exactly what you want?" and we agreed that we had to do this before we proceeded with our plans.

   For me, this prayer came especially hard. While we were still in high school I'd told Howard that I loved Jesus more than him. But never had I said, "Now, Lord, is this man whom I love more than any other, the man You want me to marry?" What if the Lord had someone else for me? Hadn't He given Howard another dream to replace his music? Would he replace my dream with another? Now that Howard was as deeply committed to the Lord, I knew that my heart would break if we weren't meant for each other. But I also knew God was asking us to love Him enough to let go of anything — or anyone — else in our lives. I also knew our commitment to each other would have to be forever; there was no room for mistakes.

   For days, a tension hung over us as we both struggled with this new challenge. Finally, after the next Friday night mission meeting, we talked about it as we walked to my dorm. "We have to settle this with the Lord right now," said Howard.

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   I nodded, sharing his misery over our sudden uncertainty of what God wanted.

   "But, Howard, some things can't be settled immediately."

   "Well this is one area that can't drag on. We've got to ask the Lord to show us His will."

   That night, I knelt by my bed, biting my lip with the tension of what I knew I had to say. "Okay, Lord, You know the struggle I've had with this, so I wont' try to pretend otherwise. But I trust Your perfect will and that's the only thing I want in my life. Is it Your will that Howard and I serve You together?"

   I paused, listening and half expecting to hear some celestial answer. But I heard no sound; I just sensed a special Presence. I took a deep breath and went back to prayer. "Lord, I'm willing to give Howard up if that's what You want. I don't want anything less than Your best for us. Please make Your will very plain."

   Howard had been praying the same prayer, and for several weeks we anxiously waited for God's direction. Did we hear any thunderclaps? No. But a special peace gradually settled over us. We sensed that we were meant for each other. In addition to praying, we read the Scriptures, talked to godly friends, and even listed the many ways the Lord had been leading us in the past. Finally, and with a great sigh of relief, we concluded that the Lord had placed His blessing upon our plans to marry.

   Expending all of that energy on a nonexistent problem may seem ridiculous to some, but we're both thankful we faced that dilemma when we did. Not only did it give us peace at the time, but it kept us from asking ourselves those exhausting "what ifs" later. That early time of indecision cemented our commitment — not only to each other but to the Lord as well, and joyfully we faced our last year in college.

*     *     *

   During our senior year, Howard preached each weekend in New York, usually at the little church in Harlem. Two of the

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women from that church, Lydia Borchart and Doris Woolward, approached him early in the year with a request: Would he take over as pastor of the church when he graduated? Lydia, a secretary at the Nyack headquarters of the Christian and Missionary Alliance Church, was white, while Doris, a seamstress in a downtown factory, was black. Several years before, they had started holding Bible classes in homes of a few young people in a neighborhood the Lord had placed upon their hearts. The vision to start a church had sprouted, and now the group was established enough to need a pastor.

   The women invited me to spend several weekends with them. We all agreed that my trips down would help Howard and me to be more realistic and specific in our prayers. The foreign mission field didn't seem to be God's place for us. But maybe God had trusted us with a mission field here at home, within the heart of the city. Yes, we would take the job, we decided. Still, even while I thanked the Lord for the opportunity to serve Him, I had to chuckle as I remembered Howard's early promises to me. Come graduation, the man who had said he would take me around the world was taking me to Harlem!

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